


hard/soft

by orphan_account



Series: Overwatch PWP [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multiple Sex Positions, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 09:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7679470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” he asks, heady with lack of air, fighting his own urge to clench his thighs shut even as he grinds forward, holding Hanzo’s thin hips for purchase. Hanzo makes a noise in his throat, something akin to a growl, and McCree knows, yes. That’s how it’s gonna be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hard/soft

**Author's Note:**

> So this thing is borne from me deciding Jesse deserved some really nice aftercare. He's such a trooper and I love him.

The door clicks shut, rammed into its frame by the slam of Hanzo’s back. Teeth find his neck and he’s hissing, cursing without words, snatching at wandering hands, smacking McCree with the backs of his fingers.

 “Teeth,” he says, because it’s all he can manage, McCree’s answering rumble lost in the flesh of his neck, at the join of jugular and shoulder. He’s pawed at, groped, hands slipping inside his _kyudo-gi_ , pooling at his waist, until McCree finally loosens the ties and grasps greedy handfuls of his hips.

 Hanzo has tangled one hand in Mccree’s mane, the other pulling his serape from his shoulders. It whips to the floor, and the door bangs again with one insistent slam of McCree’s hips. Hanzo’s tongue clicks. He fastens his mouth to McCree’s with another simmering hiss, tugs at his scalp until McCree cranes his neck backwards and Hanzo tastes the roof of his mouth, like cigarillo ash and coffee.

 McCree is rumbling again - “You naggin’ me about _my_ teeth, darlin’,” - snatching air through his nose as Hanzo works one hand beneath the collar of his shirt - a button-up checked sort of thing that pulls too snugly over his pectorals - nails on shoulder sinew, rucking the cotton out of shape and pulling the closed buttons harshly taut. Hips clash, and McCree lifts his leg, grinding forward into the door like it’s dancing with him. He feels Hanzo’s knees wobble, clank backwards, and bites a smile into his mouth.

 “C’mon, darlin’,” he says, slurs it like he’s drunk, and the rasp of his voice slides like sandpaper over the concavity of Hanzo’s spine, pushes him upright, grasping at Jesse’s shoulder, hip, belly, pulling him back into a kiss as though he’s drowning on the air between them. Their tongues meet in the middle, and it’s sloppy and wet and undignified in the extreme, but McCree has his _kyudo-gi_ hanging limply from his tattooed arm, flesh hand digging down the front of Hanzo’s ornamented _hakama_ , and he’s mumbling legato into Hanzo’s jaw, and no thought can be spared for dignity. “Let me have you.”

 He palms at Hanzo, hands like bear paws and just as graceful, chuckles at the sting of teeth in his bottom lip as Hanzo’s breath hitches. McCree pulls upright, a good half foot on Hanzo, works his open thigh flat against the door, hips stuttering as he finds friction on Hanzo’s hip.

 Hanzo curses again, nothing close to a language Jesse might understand. He’s dwarfed under the height, the weight, too far from lips he wants to kiss, to bite, to smother. He settles instead for baring McCree’s collarbones, sucking at the thin skin of his sternum, swelling pink and glistening under his tongue. McCree grinds on him, and Hanzo has to grapple for his hips, slow him down, get a hand past the waistband of his jeans and grab the meat of Jesse’s ass, earning another blistered chuckle.

 “That’s it, darlin’. Get a good ol’ handful,” Jesse says, laughs it, like it’s hilarious, like he’s not rolling his hips just to press denim against his core.

 Hanzo digs his nails in.

 He smacks Jesse’s perpetually hideous belt buckle with his free hand, keeps his hand there, heel on gold, fingers prying lower. Squeezes. “Off,” he says.

 Jesse swears he sees stars. “Yes, sir,” he says, and may well whimper when Hanzo pushes away from him, snatching his belt so fast his nails bend on the metal.

 Hanzo is pulling the scarf from his hair, letting his _kyudo-gi_ fall where it lands. His _hakama_ are tented, and Jesse can’t help but let his gaze linger as he toes off his jeans, socks, attempts to unbutton his shirt where Hanzo had left it hanging over his shoulder.

 Hanzo is back on him before he finishes, dragging McCree downwards the six inches for another bruising kiss, the curls at McCree’s nape wrapped tight around Hanzo’s knuckles. McCree gets his flesh hand on his chest, fumbling to capture Hanzo’s breast in his palm and squeeze, roll his fingers, groaning shuddering into their kiss like it pains him. His metal hand gropes at Hanzo’s hip and behind to his ass, playing with the weight of him as Hanzo’s muscles jump, clench back at too-cold fingers.

 Their hips jolt together again, and Hanzo’s hand is suddenly in McCree’s underwear, prying backward between his legs. The edges of his nails scrape over the back of McCree’s thighs, and McCree swears out loud, burying a gasping laugh behind Hanzo’s ear into his silvering hair.

 “That’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” he asks, heady with lack of air, fighting his own urge to clench his thighs shut even as he grinds forward, holding Hanzo’s thin hips for purchase. Hanzo makes a noise in his throat, something akin to a growl, and McCree knows, yes. That’s how it’s gonna be.

 The bed protests their combined weight as Hanzo straddles his chest, _hakama_ caught on the metal lips of his prosthetic knees before he kicks them away, settling his bare ass against the thick fuzz  of McCree’s ribs. Hanzo takes his own erection in hand and strokes himself, a lazy contrast to the heaving of his chest, to Jesse’s grating breathing. His palm is loosely curled, not tight enough for any real friction, and McCree has to watch a dribble of liquid ooze onto his own chest, just above the juncture of the two stubborn buttons still keeping his shirt pulled obscenely across his pectorals. McCree undoes them as fast as his fingers allow, finally shucking the last of his clothes as though being naked will help quash the rising tide of pleasure, of need.

 He lies back, watches Hanzo settle his weight, pull at the head of his cock. His mouth is open and he licks at his bottom lip, catches Hanzo’s eye. He doesn’t even have the wherewithal to smirk.

 Hanzo stretches forward then, delves a hand into McCree’s hair, sweeping thick curls back from his forehead. An anchor. He watches, teeth just worrying at his own lips, and rolls his hips, a languid figure eight that has his balls pressed almost too tightly against the hair of McCree’s belly.

 “Fuck,” McCree says, and then again, pitch high and shuddering. His eyelashes flutter. “Darlin’, you’re killin’ me.” He brings his good hand up to rest on Hanzo’s hip, knowing he won’t be allowed any further, trying to pull against the fingers in his hair. “Lemme just-”

“Shh…”

“Fuck, Hanzo, sweetheart, you’re- I’m dyin’ here, honey. Please…”

 Hanzo repeats the motion, and again Jesse wonders if heaven will miss the stars that have taken up residence behind his eyeballs. He moans, melting. Toes scrabble on the bed sheets, just the motion of Hanzo’s hips enough to twist dangerous knots in his belly. “Oh my god…”

 His hand is covered then. Hanzo laces their fingers together on his hip, and leans backwards as if to peruse the state of McCree’s groin, cock jutting proudly higher with the bend of his spine. McCree watches the tip glisten, the firm curve of Hanzo’s thighs. He licks his lip again.

 Hanzo’s preparation is never hurried. He stretches Jesse one finger at a time, with the vial of lube that smells like sandalwood, pressing past each knuckle with a conscientiousness Jesse hasn’t ever seen in a lover. His cock jumps with every movement of his muscles, every bend of his arm, the tattooed dragon flexing its scales as its tail flicks behind where Jesse can’t see, twists its feathers, coils into him with every press and stroke of Hanzo’s fingers. He’s nearly whimpering. It takes too long.

 “Darlin’, please,” Jesse says, rubbing insistent circles into a pale hip, fidgeting with impatience. “I ain’t glass, I need-” Three fingers, and Jesse grinds up against Hanzo’s back, legs falling open as the head of his cock bounces against Hanzo’s spine.

 “Fuck- Fuck, _Hanzo_ -”

 Hanzo clicks his tongue and his weight is gone too fast, like a bucket of ice water on McCree’s sweating skin. He’s kneeling up on the bed to shimmy back between McCree’s lolling knees, metal calves flexing, segmenting to balance his weight.

 McCree’s head lolls. His balls are drawn tight up against the base of his erection, and his hands grab at fistfuls of the bed sheets, flesh knuckles white. Hanzo indulges in the sight of him, stretched and sighing beneath him, like an offering, and smirks.

 There is more lube for himself, and then Hanzo is pushing McCree’s thighs back and apart, spreading his ass cheeks, and McCree thinks he might sob at the desperation, clutching air in his metal hand and whining. Hanzo pushes in.

 “O-Oh my god, fuck, fuck fuck shit fuck-”

 “Shh…” Hanzo’s chest bows over McCree, hips shuddering with effort, and McCree grabs at him, at his hair. He swears for a few more gasping breaths, moaning hot and ragged into Hanzo’s neck as the other finally bottoms out, his breathing the only sign that he’s bothered at all.

 It takes a few moments, and then Hanzo is moving, slick and easy and hot in McCree’s hole, pushing himself upright, hands balanced on McCree’s knees. He towers over Jesse, cheeks flushed red, hair sticking itself to his forehead with every couple of thrusts.

 “Fuck, darlin’,” McCree says again, because his mouth has lost all communication links with his brain, hanging open and slack against the pillow by his head. Hanzo is like a force of nature above him, hard and hungry. “Fuck me, come on, sweetheart. Fuck. Yes, _fuck_ \- Sweet darling, yes, fuck me.”

 Hanzo allows himself another sharp smile, eyes turned heavenward as he ruts against the cradle of McCree’s hips. His hipbones hurt with the force of it, balls smacking the curve of McCree’s ass over and over, jolting them both against the mattress. McCree’s cock weeps onto his stomach, fat drips of cum tangled in the sweat-damp hair there, jumping with every one of Hanzo’s thrusts. He’s chanting under his breath, a mantra, juxtaposed gibberish and the low Southern drawl that makes Hanzo’s fingers curl and his head bow as if in prayer. In another life, perhaps.

 McCree’s back starts arching, and Hanzo has to hold him by the hips to keep the rhythm, punishing as it is. He’s choking on his air, scrabbling his claws on the sheets like a trapped animal, and Hanzo gives his thigh a slap, snapping his attention back to the second. Wide eyes meet his, and Hanzo flashes him a breathless smile.

 “Fuck…” McCree is back to babbling in a second, and again Hanzo smirks, groaning back to him through his teeth in response. “I’m- I need to- Darlin’, I’m, I can’t-”

“Impatient,” Hanzo says, though not unkindly, and McCree trills with laughter bordering on sobbing.

“I ain’t young no more, sweetheart,” he says, more breath than voice, vowels long and growling. He smiles like his heart might burst, cheeks rosy with exertion, eyes creased shut, and Hanzo has to take a second to marvel at the crude beauty of it all.

 “Come,” Hanzo says then, and McCree grasps for him, shaking, clawing, slack-jawed and moaning. No more words. His knees pull back. He cries out loud, toes curled painfully into themselves, and then swears some more in frustration.

 Hanzo tuts, and leans down, McCree’s cock like a brand where it hits his stomach with the crashing of their hips. His mouth presses heavy on McCree’s cheek, tongue slipping where stubble becomes sideburn, wiry with grey amidst the brown. “I said,” he hisses, tucks his long hair behind his ear to better watch the pressure build in McCree’s eyes. “Come.”

 He slaps again, hand cracking hard against McCree’s trembling thigh.

 McCree comes. Bent backwards, hips canting uselessly, he spills in ribbons over his chest. “Hanzo!” he manages, groans out loud, struggles with the pitch and fall as pleasure flares in his gut, in his spine, sparking, tipping him over a cliff edge. He grabs for Hanzo, grabs the air, gets a hand between them and grabs at his cock, jerks the last of his orgasm in messy spurts across his stomach.

 His back crumples. He’s buzzing, and he’s limp against the perpetual motion of Hanzo’s hips, the shudder in his muscles.

 “Good,” Hanzo says, licking another clumsy kiss over McCree’s cheekbone. He pulls upright, backward, smacking lightly at McCree’s legs with the backs of his fingers.

 His cock slips free and Hanzo is pushing at McCree to turn over, to get on his knees, ignoring his keening at the loss. It’s a feat barely managed, and Hanzo has to brace him around the stomach, nudge his thighs apart to press back into his gaping hole, unwilling to linger long without the warmth. McCree whimpers, buries his face in the crook of his elbow, trembling stiff with the effort of keeping his ass in the air.

 Hanzo grunts, and keeps grunting, arm a steadfast anchor around McCree’s belly as he resumes his pace, chasing the tingle in the base of his own spine, the clenching of McCree’s muscles. He’s swearing under what little breath he has, hissing Japanese. McCree’s walls clamp around him instinctively and he groans, stuttering for a second with the rush of it, leaning low over McCree’s back.

 The new angle has McCree stifling a cry in the curve of his good arm, body fighting to close his thighs, to run from the sensory overload, the sensitisation, his muscles spasming around the solid burn of Hanzo’s cock. His thighs scream at him. It’s almost the wrong side of too much, too far, but he’s pushing back into Hanzo’s thrusts, helpless but to hold on. Hanzo teeters, hauls McCree by the hips. Chokes, arches.

 Hanzo comes with a groan more like a snarl; thighs crash into the backs of McCree’s legs. He pulls him impossibly closer, hips bucking in stilted rhythm as he empties, rides it out. He’s groaning still as he slows, pulling back enough to get his hand around the head of his cock and spill the last of his cum over McCree’s ass, thick and hot and seeping from McCree’s twitching hole.

 The brace around his belly softens, and McCree goes down like a forest full of timber, collapsing into the bed with shaking limbs. Every exhale is a whine; every heave of his chest rattles like a motel AC unit. The backs of his thighs tremble, red and wet with cum.

 Hanzo kneels back until his head stops spinning, raking a hand through his hair to chase it away from his face, panting lips, sweat-slick forehead. The world rights itself in moments of breathing, of tingling fingers and jangling nerves.

 McCree’s thighs stop jumping when he catches his breath - a pink hand starting to blossom on the curve where ass meets leg - and his gasping melts away into nothing, and as Hanzo gets up, he thinks that maybe Jesse has fallen asleep. Hanzo holds the bed frame for balance, and feels drunk.

 The bed dips when he rejoins McCree a moment later, and Jesse murmurs something indistinct, peeks up past the curtain of his curling hair. He shuffles in an attempt to make room on the bed, legs weak and sluggish.

 “Mm?” Hanzo settles to his side, crosses his legs underneath him. Something damp slides gently against the backs of McCree’s knees, and for one wild moment, Jesse imagines it’s Hanzo’s tongue.

 Much less interesting. It’s the hand towel from the shower room, damp with warm water. Hanzo strokes up from his knee, gentle side-to-side motions over the surge of Jesse’s thigh. He makes a lazy circle over the swelling handprint, barely touching, and Jesse mumbles again in comfortable pleasure, relaxing bone-deep.

 “Jesse,” Hanzo says, so quiet that Jesse isn’t sure he heard anything at all. He rumbles, deep in his chest, as Hanzo carefully washes one thigh, then the other. With every few stokes, he folds the towel to use a clean section, cooler than the last. Jesse’s breathing flutters.

 A hand joins the towel, softer than any skin Jesse thinks he has ever felt, Hanzo’s thumb massaging the swell of Jesse’s ass ever so gently. It’s barely a touch at all, more a caress, fingertips easing flesh so Hanzo can clean him, towel stroking carefully over Jesse’s balls, the insides of his thighs.

 Cum slides obscenely down Jesse’s taint, and Hanzo has to stifle a smirk as he catches the drops in the towel. Almost smug. Sated. He strokes with a clean swipe of the towel each time, taking extra care not to touch for too long, nor too hard, thumb massaging dimples in the flesh. 

  Jesse hums at him, turning his head just enough to catch the other’s eye. He smiles. 

  The bed creaks, and Jesse lets his weight sink blissfully deep, the air cool on his damp skin.

 “Jesse,” Hanzo says again, gentle, and then, “turn over,” voice low and rumbling, with a quiet only reserved for McCree’s given name, as though it is something precious for his mouth to say. The intimacy of it makes Jesse’s heart leap.

 McCree rolls over, stiff, brows creased against the satisfied ache already bleeding into his lower back. It’s not unpleasant. His cock lies soft against the jut of his hipbone, hair swirled in wet stripes over his chest.

 He sighs, heavy, and relaxes again, folding his metal arm up above his head and burrowing into the pillow of his elbow and bicep. Hanzo is watching him, and neither can help their smiles when Jesse raises one eyebrow, suggestive, as ever.

 The towel pulls at his chest hair, but Hanzo is ever gentle, his thumb smoothing circles into Jesse’s hip as he cleans him, diligent and silent, save for the occasional exhaled hum.

 It’s still, and warm, and McCree closes his eyes lest they well up, forever flawed by the reverence with which he is tended, the care he is afforded. Hanzo strokes gently up his torso, pauses at his breast and then continues upward, tracing scars when he finds them, and muscle when he doesn’t. He leans low then, hand coming to rest at Jesse’s neck, and presses a kiss to his lips, the towel folded and sat neatly on Jesse’s belly.

 “Mmm…” Jesse rumbles deep, barely opening his mouth to the kiss. He threads a hand through Hanzo’s hair, feeling a thumb creep over his jaw, stroke over his cheekbone. Hanzo’s thumb presses tenderly at the lines beneath his eye, and his hand settles on Jesse’s cheek, steady and warm.

 He’s whispering then, Japanese and too soft to be heard, moving to settle prone against Jesse’s side, head on his chest.

 Jesse chuckles. “I love you too,” he says, and wraps his arm around Hanzo’s waist.

 


End file.
